


Tit for tat

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Psychological Trauma, Restraints, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:12:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rather shitty thing that Sherlock did to John in The Hounds of Baskerville was left oddly unresolved at the end, which felt jarring to me.  I like to think the John who left after Sherlock was rude in Great Game, and the John who didn't stop punching at the point Sherlock wanted in Scandal, wouldn't lie down for that, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tit for tat

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Kahvi and Smaych for the beta and suggestions.

_The laboratory was dark, dizzy, disorienting. Red lights, dim illumination, long shadows, and IT was there - it had to be there! He could hear it, snarling, smelling his blood, smelling his fear, and it was useless to shut the cage and cower in the corner - it had bent the cage, it would not be held back by those puny bars. It was coming, all snarling fangs and red eyes, and John could _see_ it, staring at him, hating him, wanting to rip him limb from limb..._

 _"Get me out, Sherlock, you have got to get me out..."_

 

* * *

 

An _average_ mind. That's all it was, to Sherlock; a point on a scale. Not a mind that would ever _mind_ , mind; not a mind that would have nightmares after, about faceless evil in Afghanistan tearing into him, leaving him wide awake and shaking in a cold sweat. Sherlock had slept soundly through all that, sharing the bed like he was sharing it with a tolerated pet.

John contemplated this as he sipped his coffee (no milk, no sugar, the plain, bracing taste comforting). Sherlock didn't even realize that anything noteworthy had happened. Trust. Betrayal. Abstract concepts, to Sherlock - dots of other peoples' motivations, nothing relevant to himself. Coffee dribbled on the table. John's hand was shaking, and he set the coffee down, clasping his hands together.

Nothing relevant to himself. An idea tickled the back of John's mind. Perhaps they could be _made_ relevant. Who would he be if he just sat there and _took_ this, let it pass as if it were a harmless joke?

John stood, walking off in search of Lestrade.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock said very little on the train ride back to London, his hands in front of his chin, muttering to himself, looking out of the window. That suited John. He didn't even wonder how much of his plan he was broadcasting to Sherlock via his manner, his looks and gestures, the million things that Sherlock could read like the headline of the morning paper. John was a solider; he would _execute_.

Sherlock sighed aggressively as they rode in the cab back to 221B. "Oh, god, now I'm bored again," he whinged. "That was a decent enough diversion, yes, but now it's over!"

"A man died, you know."

"That had nothing to do with the case." Sherlock flipped his hand dismissively. "It was already solved. A victim of his own stupidity."

"And you almost went mad."

"Always so _dramatic_ , John. I did not 'almost go mad.' I made the rational deduction from my own behavior, and acted accordingly. And I was right."

 _You almost drove_ me _mad_ , John didn't say, and they sat through the rest of the drive in silence.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock headed immediately towards his room, tossing his coat and scarf aside. "Stop!" John shouted, and Sherlock did not even pause. John ran towards him, grabbing the back of his shirt before it fully disappeared into his room. "I'm searching you for drugs."

"Oh, how tedious. Fine, go ahead." Sherlock spread his arms above his head dramatically, and John started to methodically pat him down, Sherlock's shirt bunching in his hands over the man's slender frame. "You're quite bad at this," Sherlock sighed. "Do you know how many places I could be hiding little bags of pills? You should insist on a strip search... Bah!" The last was a bark of surprise as John swept Sherlock's legs out, catching the man's torso between his legs, firmly. John pulled out the handcuffs he had borrowed from Lestrade - no flimsy novelty items, these, but solid police handcuffs, the right tool for the job.

John swiftly clasped them over Sherlock's wrists, ratcheting them down hard. Sherlock struggled, but John had weight and surprise on his side. He kept Sherlock squeezed hard between his legs as he hooked one handcuff over the far-right bedpost, shutting it too firmly to slide over the plain sphere atop the post. John fastened the other handcuff to the far left bedpost, likewise fastening it firmly. He checked the tension of the cuffs over Sherlock's wrists before unclasping Sherlock's torso from between his legs. The man's body sagged a moment in surprise, dangling from the cuffs.

"Well," John said, stepping back with a deep breath. "That will do."

Sherlock swung his head back, giving John a look that would curdle milk. "Oh, god, John, must you be so boring?" Sherlock tugged at the handcuffs, but John had tightened them down firmly enough to allow no movement, just shy of cutting off his circulation entirely. "I can pick my way out of these."

"Try." Sherlock was spread so his hands could not twist backwards to the cuffs' keyholes, and his teeth could not even get close. John wasn't an amateur, after all. "Fine," he said, after watching Sherlock for a moment, "I'm going to have some tea."

"This is BORING!" Sherlock yelled, as John walked to the kitchen. "You are BORING me, John!"

 

* * *

It had been, John decided, a rather pleasingly restful afternoon. His chair gave him a good view into Sherlock's room, to make sure Sherlock wasn't up to any mischief. The man hummed loudly, and yelled, and said rather rude things about John's ex-girlfriends that he had deduced, and noted the last time John had sex (rather a long time ago), and John's exact weight gain over the holidays.

It was nothing John hadn't heard before, and he drank his tea comfortably. Sherlock soon fell silent, dangling from the cuffs, breathing heavily and shaking.

Sherlock's phone buzzed a few times, as it tended to, and John eventually picked it out of Sherlock's coat pocket to take a look.

"What does it say?" Sherlock asked, craning his neck and struggling at the handcuffs. He tried to move the bed, but it merely creaked in protest.

"Oh," John replied, airily, "nothing."

"I am GOING TO GET A NEW BLOGGER!" Sherlock bellowed.

 

* * *

 

The shadows lengthened, and slowly, twilight turned into dark. It was quietly peaceful, save for the buzzing of Sherlock's phone and the noise of the argument between Mrs. Turner's flat-sitting son and son-in-law, and the later noise of their making up for the argument.

Sherlock had gone quiet again many hours before, his breathing oddly heavy, his body shaking a bit. Some sympathy found its way through into John's mind, but he thought of dark laboratories and drugged coffee, and pushed that aside, finishing his third cup of tea. He put the cup down and wandered over to the cluttered table, picking up Sherlock's phone again. "Murder in Leeds, disappearance in Hull, and something Lestrade says is 'just like the potter last year, but interesting.' Hm." John put the phone back down.

"Oh, for god's sake." Sherlock's voice was oddly quiet. "You have to let me go."

"I do?" _Tell me what you see, John_.

"You cannot be serious."

"Yes, I can." _I'm coming, John._ But he wasn't. He was watching, experimenting, _playing_.

Sherlock sighed, looking down. "Please. Let me go."

"Please." John snorted, sitting in his chair.

Sherlock leaned his head back, raising his voice, his back taut. "Please, John. I'm _begging_ you. Let me go."

John nodded. "It hurts, doesn't it."

"Yes..." Sherlock jerked on the cuffs. "Goddam it, John, _please_ let me go!" His voice did not have its normal sharp note of command. _I've never begged._

It was... well, who could tell how far 'far enough' was, or if such a thing even existed, for Sherlock. John couldn't do it any more, however. He fished the keys out of his pocket, unlatching the handcuffs. Sherlock leaped to his feet, rubbing the angry red marks on his wrists, and dashed over to the phone, scrolling through the texts and emails like a starving man given a Christmas feast.

"Did you know I was going to do that?" John asked, swinging the handcuffs idly.

Sherlock snorted, his back still turned away. "I'm not an idiot, John."

The evening slid gently into night.


End file.
